


for lack of advice columnists

by againstmygreeleaf



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Gen, Gore, Graphic Description, Hemophobia, Minor Character Death, Referenced Dysphoria, Trans Female Pidge | Katie Holt, Trauma, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 13:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13078314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/againstmygreeleaf/pseuds/againstmygreeleaf
Summary: Hunk isn’t sure when he noticed the rock, doesn’t recall noticing it at all. The rock is within reach and his bayard isn’t.





	for lack of advice columnists

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably over-tagged and I'm probably paranoid about tagging, but I like to be vigilant because I am a gore fiend and that kind of thing is triggering to a lot of people. Definitely don't want to trigger anyone or just expose people to uncomfortable content without fair warning, so fair warning, gore ahead. 
> 
> I thought I was off my Hunk whump kick and then Good Behavior s2e10 happened. Admitting it, this is blatantly inspired by the Good Behavior season finale. Oh Letty. Poor Letty.

Pidge’s scream is choked off as the bandit grappling with her coils their tail around her throat. It pulls taut and slams her down. Ghoulishly long fingers cinch around her wrist and wrench her arm upright, viciously twisting at an angle no arm should go until there’s a loud crack and the bayard drops from her hand.

Hunk’s cannon isn’t known for its accuracy. If he shoots, he could easily hit Pidge too. He goes charging instead, tunnel vision fixated on one goal— get the threat away from her.

He tackles the bandit and they’re sent gracelessly rolling together. They’ve scarcely come to a stop when that tail wedges its way between and flicks Hunk off with a force that knocks the breath from his lungs. He lands heavily on his back and the bandit is quick to recover themself, springing to their feet.

Hunk goes for his bayard and grasps only its absence. He barely has time to conclude that he lost somewhere in the spill before the bandit strikes, three multicolored eyes smoldering in ire. Despite the razored, deadly sharp appearance of the claws on their gauntlet, it must not pierce his suit. There’s no pain, only a tugging sensation.

One missed strike doesn’t make Hunk any less terrified. He snaps upright and seizes the tail that’s drilling toward his face, yanking with as much strength as he’s got. The bandit hits the dirt grunting.

“Little shit,” they snarl dangerously, the first words they’ve spoken to him.

They start to push up and Hunk isn’t sure when he noticed the rock, doesn’t recall noticing it at all.

The rock is within reach and his bayard isn’t.

Hunk smashes it into the face of his foe, the wet crunch of the connection churning his stomach. He smashes it in a second time without pause, then a third, a fourth, mindless panic driving the blows. The crunches grow wetter and wetter until he’s smashing a mushy pulp where a face only used to be.

The rock tumbles from Hunk’s grip and hits the ground with a quiet thud. The bandit isn’t trying to get up anymore. Two of the three eyes that burned into him with fury are rendered puree against crushed cheek bones and the third dangles from its socket down to the bridge of a bulbous broken nose.

 _I just killed someone_ , Hunk thinks as he scuttles backwards, curling in a fetal position. _I killed someone, I killed someone, I killed someone._

Green blood pools around the dead alien’s head like a grotesque corona.

_I killed someone, I killed someone, I killed someone._

It wasn’t his intention. He just got scared.

Doesn’t matter if he meant to or not. They’re still dead.

Hunk claps his hand over his mouth in horror and gags when blood smears over his lips. The taste floods over his tongue, tart and pungent. He can hear his teammates on the comms, voices strained and urgent. But he can’t actually make out what they’re saying, not over the mantra screaming in his head.

_I killed someone, I killed someone, I killed someone._

Why did he do that? He didn’t have to do that, right? He was a paladin, he was supposed to save people, not kill them! But he’d gone blank. Primal fear took over and shoved away everything else. He wasn’t thinking— he should have been thinking!

He should have just subdued them! Why did he hit them that many times? How many times did he hit them, anyway?

Hunk looks back to the crater cradling meat ground raw and rearranged facial features. His stomach corkscrews at the sight and his breath quickens, short and ragged with distress. He should’ve just hit them in the leg. Or taken Pidge from the threat rather than the other way around.

_I’m a killer. I’m a killer. I’m a killer._

The world around him blurs indistinctly as dread roots into the pit of his gut. He can’t go back from this. Of course he had to help Pidge. Of course he had to defend himself. He didn’t have to do it like this, he’s never had to do it like this before. He’s supposed to—

“Hey, look at me.”

Hunk yelps, flinching as a hand touches his shoulder. Lance is staring at him, as lips pressed into a firm line. Hunk has no idea how long he’s been here. He didn't hear him or see him or anything, when did he did get here? How did he get here? 

“You have to put your knees down, big guy, I need to see where you’re hurt.”

“I’m not,” Hunk grates out, quivering. “My blood’s not green.”

Green blood doesn’t mean that wasn’t a person though. Alien or not, bandit or not, that was a person and he just killed them.

“Yeah, buddy,” Lance says, throat bobbing as he swallows. “That’s how we know all the red stuff is yours.”

Puzzled, Hunk looks down at himself.

Oh. _Oh_.

Sure enough, it looks like Christmas threw up on him, blotches of red and green painting his armor. He stretches his legs out and it’s even worse, his blood oozing over the splatters of the alien’s.

The claws on the gauntlet got him after all. Four open gouges run up from his navel to under his armpit. The thick material of his suit split and even his chest plate got carved into. It offered more protection even so; the higher the wounds go, the more shallow they get. They’re barely more than scratches under his arm, trickling thin lines of blood.

His stomach isn’t as superficial. His stomach is gushing.

Lance gasps, quickly planting his hands against it to staunch the bleeding. Hunk turns his head to the side and heaves, the partly digested contents of his stomach splashing the dirt.

“It looks pretty bad but I don’t think it’s that deep,” Lance says, jittery, distracted.

Hunk vaguely realizes he’s talking about his wounds. It’s weird. He doesn’t feel them, not really. He feels a pressure beneath Lance’s hands, but he doesn’t feel any pain. He hadn’t noticed at all. Hunk isn’t sure if it’s endorphins or if his injuries are so nominal against the fact that he killed someone that they just don’t register.

“I killed that alien,” he confesses bluntly.

“I noticed,” Lance says, leveling his gaze to Hunk’s. “It’s— It’s okay. You had to.”

“Did I really?” Hunk whimpers.

He shuts his eyes against the sight of the corpse and the blood, and finds his nausea rising anyway. He turns his head and vomits again, a steady stream of acidic chunks. He hiccups and after a brief pause to rake in some air, gives into round three.

“Hunk? Can you walk?”

Shiro’s here now, crouched beside Lance and frowning intently. When did that happen?

“What the fuck did I do, Shiro?”

“I know you’ve had a shock,” Shiro starts, “but you saved your teammate. That’s good, you did good.”

Hunk throws up again.

* * *

The walk back to the Red Lion is a disjointed experience that Hunk barely recalls participating in by the time they actually get there. He’s starting to feel his wounds.

Keith is waiting for them in the cockpit, holding a very limp and very pale Pidge. Her arm’s been splinted but she’s unconscious.

“Is she okay?” Hunk asks, apprehensive.

“She will be,” Keith says, eyes wide as he looks Hunk over. “Are you?”

“I killed someone,” he croaks, guilt slithering up his back.

“Someone who was obviously trying to kill you too,” Lance points out. “My gloves are soaked.”

Hunk takes a dazed look down. His friend still has a hand firmly pressed to the slash that slices through his navel, the one most determined to keep bleeding. He feels even even dizzier just looking at it, so he turns away.

Shiro and Lance help him sit and then Shiro takes Pidge from Keith so he can pilot. Hunk slides down until he’s on the floor, flat on his back. He’s been hyperventilating for awhile now, but back there it was more of a distant awareness. It’s starting to take a toll, his head light and lungs aching.

“He needs stitches,” Shiro declares as soon Lance pops open the first aid kit.

Hunk’s stomach jolts.

“He’s not good with needles,” Lance says immediately. “He’s already freaking out, I don’t want to make it worse.”

Right, Lance is aware of his needle aversion. They’d been together when the Garrison was sponsoring flu shots.

How long ago was that, anyway?

“I’ll just butterfly him up really good. Like you said, they’re wider than they are deep.”

“Alright,” Shiro relents. “I guess a pod’s going to take care of the rest soon enough anyway.”

It can’t take care of everything. It can’t take care of the fact that Hunk just _killed_ somebody.

Are his teammates right? Or are they just trying to pacify him? Are they afraid of him, even?

For the first time ever, he’s pretty afraid of himself.

* * *

Pidge is just coming to when they land. She hisses a curse between her teeth and Shiro warns her not to move too much. He gently gives her to Keith and helps Lance get Hunk to his feet. Hunk struggles for coordination between them, nearly tripping down the exit ramp. His friends keep a good grip on him. They’re dragging him, practically, albeit as gently as they can.

Pidge winces when she picks her head up but glances back anyway, scrutinizing.

“That looks like it hurts,” she tells Hunk, voice feeble but concerned.

“Yeah…you too.”

“Thanks for having my back,” she says next. “That tail was so tight around my neck, I couldn’t breathe.”

Hunk’s own breath catches.

She doesn’t know, does she?

His insides roil with fresh nausea and whether it’s from what he did, what she said, or if he’s just plain succumbing to his injuries, Hunk feels faint. He tries to tell them he has to stop, but the words don’t make it off his tongue before his vision blurs and the floor falls out from under him.

He has a watery awareness of Allura showing up and helping him onto a cushioned hovercraft at some point. Things go black after that too, but eventually he wakes to a biting pain riddling through his midsection.

Hunk automatically clutches at it, bumping into the hand that’s already there.

“Relax,” Coran urges, sharpening into view as Hunk blinks away the bleariness.

“I strongly discourage sudden movements,” continues Coran, wariness rut into his features. “Take it slow.”

Hunk sits carefully, glancing around and taking stock of his surroundings. “My room?”

“I’m afraid we’re having an issue with the pods,” Coran explains. “The control panels aren’t responding correctly. I’m running diagnostics now.”

“Think you’ll need help fixing them?” That could be an engaging distraction. Hunk could use a distraction.

Coran shakes his head. “I’m sure it’s a only a minor problem that will require an easy fix. Until then, just take care not to reopen your wounds.”

Hunk glances down to find his suit gone entirely, torso bound in thick layers of bandaging. He blinks, experimentally brushes his fingers over the fabric.

“Try to limit your movements.” Coran suggests. “Don’t do anything strenuous. Don’t raise your arms, or bend down, or turn quickly, or anything of the like. No showering either.”

Hunk tenses at that last one, anxiously wringing his hands. He feels filthy. A shower seems necessary, he should scrub himself until he’s made it down to the layers of skin that have nothing to do with what he did.

But that wouldn’t actually change anything, would it?

The urge itself is a lie.

Coran puts a hand on his shoulder, studying him with concern. “Are you in pain?”

“Yeah.” It’s not what he’s thinking about but it’s not a lie either. There’s a searing sting beneath the fabric of the gauze. It hurts pretty much everywhere, but it’s the worst in his stomach.

“You can have one of these every four vargas.” Coran takes a packet of teal capsules from a tray with medical supples. He pops one out and drops it into Hunk’s waiting palm.

“What is this, exactly?” Hunk rolls it around, curious. “Like, are you sure it’s safe for humans?”

“It might make you a tad drowsy but it isn’t dangerous.” Coran pokes a straw into a water pouch and passes it to him. “You should rest anyway. Mhm, in fact, that’s not a request. Resting is the best thing you can do until I can prepare a pod for you. Stay in bed.”

Hunk washes the capsule down and worries the tip of the straw between his teeth. Coran’s got to know, right?

The others had to tell him. Besides, he would’ve seen the splatters on Hunk’s suit. Should he bring it up?

He doesn’t want to talk about it but it feels oppressive outright not acknowledging it when the nightmarish image of the bandit’s concave custard of a face is more vivid than the present. He doesn’t remember the weight of the rock in his hand. He doesn’t remember how many times he must’ve brought it down.

Coran draws a breath like he’s going to speak, but the sound of the door opening cuts him off. Lance walks in and sidles his way over.

“Hey.” He offers Hunk a weak smile then glances to Coran. “Can I have him for a sec?”

“Sure.” Coran nods and heads out, taking the tray of supplies with him.

Lance sits on the edge of Hunk’s bed and sizes him up with a quiet sigh.

“You’ve had a rough day.”

Hunk leans forward and buries his face into his friend’s shoulder, indifferent to the pain that crawls through his middle and the rigidness of the armor against his cheek.

Lance curls a hand around the back of his neck. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“You had to.”

“Had to fight back,” Hunk clarifies. “I didn’t have to kill. Did you kill who you were fighting with?”

“No, but my opponent wasn’t strangling Pidge or slashing me open.” Lance takes Hunk by the shoulders and pushes him back, staring him in the eye with a somber sincerity. “You’re not the kind of person who would throw a punch unless you have to, let alone kill somebody. I know you.”

Hunk mulls this over, uncertain. Lance is right, really. He isn’t a violent person. Or at least, he never thought of himself as a violent person. He just did a very violent thing in a very violent way, and he’s not convinced he had no other option.

He was terrified. He killed in fear, blind animal fear. If he had a better handle on himself this probably wouldn’t have happened. If he’d remained collected he probably would’ve been able to simply debilitate his opponent.

“This is war,” Lance says bluntly, breaking into his thoughts. “This is the kind of thing that’s going to happen. Sooner or later, we’re all going to have to do it. Probably more than once…”

That’s not wrong either. It’s chilling to think about, much less hear come out of his generally lighthearted friend’s mouth, but it isn’t wrong. It’s not wrong at all.

“I don’t really think about that part,” Hunk admits. “I think about liberating people and protecting them. That’s the part we always plan for.”

“Yeah, that’s our objective.” Lance rubs at the back of his head. “We’re paladins. We’re always going to save people more than…well, anything else.”

Hunk nods, even if he doesn’t quite trust the sentiment at the moment.

“Speaking of saving people, the Molkikor prince did get back to his ship okay.”

Oh. Mission success then, at least. With everything else, Hunk pretty much forgot all about the Molkikor prince. About the mission altogether, really.

“So I’m supposed to go with Allura and Shiro to touch base with their people,” Lance continues. “You know, for the celebration of his rescue and diplomacy and all that. But if you need me, I’ll stay here.”

Hunk thinks about Lance’s hands pressed into his gut, keeping all the blood from pouring out. He thinks about Lance’s pragmatism and his dismal resignation that inevitably, he will have to shoot to kill. How much even the thought must weigh on his friend’s gentle soul.

Lance should be able to go enjoy himself, try out Molkikor cuisine and flirt with Molkikor girls, and flutter around like the social butterfly he is. Bask in the success of their mission and come back with confetti in his hair.

“Nah, go.” Hunk leans back against the pillows. “That Altean painkiller is probably gonna knock me out anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Lance hesitates.

“Yeah, you need to go,” Hunk encourages. “You’ve got to help Allura and Shiro out since I won’t be there to wow the crowd with my cooking. Put your charm on and make those aliens smile.”

“Alright,” Lance agrees, tentatively brightening. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Bring me back some dessert,” Hunk says even though the last thing he feels like doing is eating.

“Do you need anything before we leave?”

“No, I’m okay.” He doesn’t exactly mean that, either.

Lance goes to hug him, pauses as his eyes linger on the bandages, and brushes a brief kiss over his forehead instead.

“I’ll bring you back the best dessert they got,” he promises.

* * *

Laying down isn’t working out.

It seems like a simple enough task. He doesn’t actually have to do anything.

That’s the thing though— nothing. There isn’t anything for Hunk to do in bed except think. The silence in the room thickens like smog as the events of today spin through his head.

However it came to be, justified or not, he’s a killer now. It doesn’t sit easy.

It’s a reality that burrows in his bones, this deep, unshakeable thing.

What would his family think?

They’ll never know. Or maybe they will, Hunk can’t imagine keeping something that important from them. If he ever even sees them again, that is…

In this moment, part of him doesn’t want to see them again. Not now that he’s done this, now that he’s killed another living being with nothing more refined than fear, force, and a jagged rock.

Would it be worse if he’d felt in control? Killed with intent over mindless fear?

Of course not, because it wouldn’t have happened at all. Hunk wouldn’t have done something like that if he hadn’t been panicking. If he felt in control, he would incapacitate. Never kill. Once again, his own cowardice is his downfall.

He’s going to drown in it if he keeps lying here in the suffocating silence of his room with nothing else to think about.  
  
Hunk is careful as he gets up. Putting on a shirt isn’t something that’s going to happen, this much he knows without bothering to attempt. He sits down to tug his lounge pants on and decides to go shirtless instead of grabbing his robe.

The castle’s kind of chilly but if things get messy in the kitchen, he doesn’t want it to get stained. Besides, it’ll get warm in there if he puts something in the oven.

Hunk plods down the hall, wondering what he should make. His appetite is still checked out so maybe he should just experiment until something turns out. The first time he tried making that Altean mousse for Allura was a bust, even though she assured him she liked it anyway. The texture was way too soupy. Maybe he should give that another go?

Nah, Allura isn’t here. Neither are Lance or Shiro. Maybe he should make something for Coran. An edible token of appreciation for patching him up since the pods are on the fritz? Or something for Pidge. The pod problem means she’s hurt too and she’s probably having a hell of a time trying to type one-handed. She could probably use a snack to cheer her up…

Hunk’s thoughts itch to crawl back to darker places. He tries to keep them centered on more productive objectives. It’ll be much easier to accomplish once he actually has something in his hands. Kinetic projects are his comfort zone. The only thing that can really corral his anxiety and keep his thoughts from spiraling out of control is working with his hands.

He has versatile hands. He’s good tinkering with machinery, or mixing dough, or— bashing faces in, evidently.

Swallowing heavily, Hunk crosses the threshold into the kitchen and hurries to the sink. He squirts a generous glob of soap onto his hands and runs the water until it’s steaming. He vigorously scrubs them, working the suds until little bubbles pop between his palms.

They don’t feel nearly clean enough but he rinses off anyway.

He opens up the fridge and inspects what he’s got to work with. Some of that zesty Altean sauce. Sparkling juice. Last night’s leftovers. This huge Toquarsian fowl that would never fit in any earth fridge.

That he might be tempted to baste if everyone were here. For now, he’s going to have to work on a smaller scale.

He surveys the next shelf up. Some pink eggs from the Space Mall. Altean energy drinks. Mini pircalx squashes. Yeah, the squashes could work.

He can stuff them with lentils and rice, or halve them for grilling, or bake them into a bread. All of the above, even, it’s a decent sized basket of them. He’s definitely got the time. Hunk takes a squash and shuts the fridge.

“What are you doing up?” someone asks from behind.

Hunk startles, squash slipping out of his hands. He wheels too fast as he tries to catch it, pain rippling along his side. He feels the sting of the split as his wound reopens like fabric tearing at the seams. He stops short and the squash hits the floor with a soft plunk as its fragile rind gives, green juice splattering.

Hunk gapes at it, heart jumping into his throat.

“Sorry,” Keith murmurs, walking around the counter. “I’ll clean it up. I didn’t mean to scare you, I just figured you’d be laying down.”

Hunk forces his eyes away from the green splatters that silently taunt him. He cups the sore place in his side and trains his gaze on Keith, watching the other paladin wet a towel.

“Why didn’t you go?” he asks.

“Can’t, remember? Allura banned me from diplomacy until further notice.”

“She’s still mad about the thing with the scorpion people?”

“I guess.” Keith’s shoulders slump. He glances at Hunk and then does a double take, lips parting in surprise. “You’re bleeding through.”

Hunk peels his hand away and shivers at sight. Blood seeps through the fabric of the bandages, unfurling like a rose in bloom.

“I’m gonna be sick.” He squeezes his eyes shut.

“You need to apply pressure.” Keith puts a towel into his hand. “Hold tight, I’ll go get Coran.”

“Wait.” Hunk warily cracks an eye open. “I can’t handle blood right now.”

Keith sighs but takes the towel back without protest. He bunches it up against the widening stain, pressing it flush and firm to the source of bleeding.

“Thanks,” Hunk mumbles.

Keith hums a sound of assent. “It isn't too bad, but you should sit down.”

Hunk nods and leans back against the counter, sliding down to sit on the floor. Keith moves with him, pressure still steadfast.

“You okay?”

“I just moved wrong,” Hunk says tersely, “I don’t think it’s deep in that spot.”

“It’s not,” Keith affirms. “I think it’s already stopped bleeding. I just wanna give it a minute to clot before I pull this away.”

“Warn me before you do. Definitely don’t want to watch,” Hunk groans.

“You gonna throw up?”

“Uh, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Try not to get it this way if you do.”

“I will.” The urge to puke is passing anyway. As long as he doesn’t look at the blood or the squash, he should be able to tolerate the nausea without getting sick.

“Does it hurt?”

“A little,” Hunk admits.

“A little?” Keith repeats dubiously. “Your hands are shaking.”

That has nothing to do with his injury but Hunk doesn’t say as much. He tries to control his breathing and blunt the thoughts the fallen squash pushed forward.

“Okay,” Keith says after a few minutes have passed. “I’m gonna check it now.”

Hunk bobs his head and keeps his eyes fixed on the wall. He feels a slight twinge as the pressure releases. Keith lets out a sigh of relief.

“It stopped,” he says, giving Hunk’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Sorry.”

“For bleeding?” Keith tilts his head.

“For being squeamish.”

“Pfft. Not like that’s new.” Keith rises to his feet and extends a hand.

Hunk accepts the help up and leans against the counter once he is, continuing his effort to pace his breath. In, out, slow, steady.

The green splatters on the floor are still mocking him, guilt coiling around his chest like a hungry snake.

“You should go lie down,” Keith says, looking him over with a trace of concern.

Hunk shakes his head. He can’t do that. He needs to be doing something. He doesn’t want to stay here either though, not with the squished squash accusing him like that. Not when he knows it’s right.

“Look, we can all handle the goo for one night.”

 _It’s not about that,_ he wants to tell Keith, but his efforts to slow his breathing are failing. Heat flashes beneath his skin and the nausea rises again as his stomach does cartwheels.

“Whoa, hey, what’s wrong?”

What does he mean ‘what’s wrong?!’ Hunk _killed_ someone! That’s wrong! That’s really, really wrong and even if Keith doesn’t know it, the squash does and it’s taunting him. He can’t stay in here, he can’t breathe in here!

Hunk takes off, swiveling around the counter and rapidly stumbling into the hall. His wounds protest the movement but he just can’t stay in there, he has to get away. Panting for breath that feels thick as cotton in his lungs and shaking uncontrollably, he only makes it about halfway down the hall before Keith catches up with him.

“Dude, you’re fine!” he exclaims, voice a blend of incredulity and concern. “You’re not bleeding anymore, why are you freaking out?”

Hunk tries to explain but it’s difficult when his chest is impossibly tight and his heart slams into it with a bruising force in every beat. He doesn’t think what he ends up spluttering makes a lot of sense, a string of anxiety-racked syllables tumbling out between his harried breaths.

Keith puts a hand on his shoulder anyway and sighs out. “I think you’re having a panic attack, like Shiro gets sometimes. The lounge is just around the corner, let’s go so you can sit. Just try to breathe and work with me, okay?”

Hunk tries. He lets Keith guide him along but he doesn’t exactly feel like he’s participating in the walk. He focuses as best he can and the rapid pace of his breaths inevitably slows. He’s lightheaded with the struggle for oxygen anyway, head swimming when Keith nudges sits him down on the couch. He’s so out of it he doesn’t even notice Pidge at first. She’s a few cushions down, wearing a soft neck collar and a sling around her arm. It's also encased in a pale orange brace that starts above her elbow and goes to her knuckles, immobilizing her thumb.

“Are you okay?” she asks, frowning at the dried blood stain on his side.

“Sure, peachy,” he snaps. “Not like I just killed anyone or anything, that didn’t happen at all!”

She purses her lips, eyes darkening. “I know how you feel. I killed Haxus.”

“Indirectly,” Hunk emphasizes. “It’s different.”

“Okay, but I actively tried to kill Zarkon when we went to rescue Allura,” Keith points out. “I wasn’t successful but I gave it my best shot and you didn’t have a problem with that.”

“That’s different too,” Hunk says sharply. “That’s Zarkon! He’s the evil overlord of evil overlords and he’s kind of a zombie anyway. That’s another way it was different with Haxus, I mean, he was part of the empire too. You guys targeted militant oppressors! Militant oppressors with their whole ’triumph or death’ doctrine! What if whoever I killed wasn’t all that bad? Just doing bad stuff to survive, like Rolo’s group did?”

Pidge sucks her lower lip between her teeth and skims the fingers of her good hand over her neck collar. “I know you’re trying to wrap your mind around what happened, but that’s a bit of a stretch.”

“You think? They were part of a ransom plot!” Keith rakes through his bangs in frustration.

“Yeah, but what if they didn’t have any other means? Even Shay and the Balmerans did bad stuff under Galra rule,” Hunk fretfully prattles on, heart rate ratcheted up to a racehorse’s rhythm. “They mined an ancient, sentient animal and helped who knows how many Galra power their tech to go off and conquer the universe! I’m not saying kidnapping the prince was okay, but I’ll never know if that alien’s motivation was plain greed or to feed their family, oh man, if they did have a family then definitely makes me a mon—”

“Don’t say that!” Pidge cuts him off, injured voice croaking under the strain of her volume. “Look, whoever you…whoever you did that to made their choice to hurt the Molkikor prince and to hurt me. No one forced them to do that.”

“How many choices could anybody have living under Galra threat and occupation!?”

Keith steps forward, chewing at his lip as a pained look twists his features. “I’m sorry about this, Hunk, but I have to make a point. Talking you down clearly isn’t working.”

Hunk shoots him a bewildered look and quick as a flash, Keith digs the heel of his hand into his side. Hunk yelps with a reflexive flinch, too stunned to shove him away.

“Hey!” Pidge sputters, sparking like a lit match.

Keith ignores her, grim gaze narrowed on Hunk. “This hurts, doesn’t it? This is what that bandit you’re so broken up about killing did to you. If it weren’t for the protection of your suit, you’d be disemboweled, and I don’t think you get that. Think about that for a second— you’re feeling guilty for defending yourself against someone who was trying to disembowel you! Just look at Pidge! They broke her arm and her spine would’ve been next! How can you talk about resorting to desperate measures for survival when you don’t realize that’s exactly what you did?”

Hunk tries to absorb, speechless, stupefied. His mind reels around connecting Keith’s words to what he remembers about the fight. The grinding of Keith’s hand into his bandages yanks him back into the present moment, pain fresh, Keith’s stare heavy to hold in his own.

“I’m not saying you can’t have complicated feelings about what you had to do. But it is something you _had_ to do,” Keith swears with an iron, unwavering certainty, “and you can’t torture yourself over it. Pidge is alive, you’re alive, and that matters a lot more to us and everyone out there who needs Voltron.”

He draws his hand away and Hunk gives an involuntary gasp as the pain recedes, carefully weighing everything he’s just been told.

“Did you have to make your point like that?” Pidge chews at the corner of her lip and fires Keith a glower of disapproval. “You’re not bleeding are you, Hunk?”

“No,” he says slowly. “Actually, I think I needed to hear that and I really, um…heard it.”

Keith nods, pensive. He glances to Pidge and she twists to grab a throw pillow a few cushions away, reaching over her sling with her good arm. She puts it in her lap and gives Hunk a fragile smile.

“Park your head here.”

Hunk lies down and gratefully drops his head into her lap. Pidge idly brushes some of his bangs back and make a thoughtful noise in her throat.

“You’re kinda clammy.”

“Sore,” Hunk admits. “Tired. Stupid cryo-pod glitch.”

“You’re telling me,” Pidge groans.

“You guys want me to put something on the projector?” asks Keith.

“I’m up for anything but Coran’s educational videos. None of those,” Hunk says. “I’ll laugh. I’m not supposed to laugh.”

“Seconded,” Pidge agrees, hint of disappointment in her voice.

“Alright,” Keith says. “I’m gonna see if I can find the one about the lady who tames a kogindoki.”

“You just like kogindoki cause they’re like alien hippos,” Pidge teases lightly.

“Kogindoki would obviously make great battle mounts.”

“Uh, Keith? We have giant robot lions,” Hunk scoffs, amused.

“I didn’t mean for us,” he insists, faint blush dusting his cheeks. “It just looks like a good movie, that’s all. Allura likes it and she has pretty good taste as far as alien movies go.”

“Sure,” Pidge says, waving her free hand. “Go see if you can find it. And bring back some blankets.”

“When did I become your servant?” Keith crosses his arms, but the upward twitch of his lips means he’s joking more than genuinely put-out.

“When the pods broke,” Pidge mutters morosely, pouting down at her arm.

“Fair enough.” With a dutiful sigh, Keith heads off.

“Blankets were a good idea,” Hunk says.

“Yeah, you look cold.” She tips her head. “Y’know, I always thought you’d have chest hair.”

“How? You’ve seen me shirtless before. I mean, you’ve seen me more than shirtless before.”

“What are you talking about?” Pidge’s face screws up.

“Showers at the Garrison.”

“Don’t remind me.” Pidge shudders with revulsion. “Probably my least favorite experience ever. I never paid attention to you or anybody else. Just wanted to wash up and go, being in there made my skin crawl.”

“Sorry for bringing it up.” Hunk wasn’t exactly focused on what anybody else was doing in the showers either, but he remembers how stark her palatable discomfort was every time he happened to notice her. It’s why he noticed her, really. That wasn’t just shyness or awkwardness, that was something else.

“No, it’s okay. It was awful but it was worth it. I’d do anything for my family. They’d do anything for me. Anything, even more than I knew,” she murmurs, eyes soft as she gently brushes her knuckles over Hunk’s cheek.

He realizes she isn’t just talking about her natal family and swallows, nodding in her lap.

He recalls the harrowing pitch of her scream before that tail snapped off her air supply entirely and knows for sure, even sick to his stomach, Keith’s right.

All he’d done was what he had to.

**Author's Note:**

> Why must I wait an entire year for Good Behavior s3.


End file.
